To Say Nothing of the Umbrella
by CardiganSweater
Summary: Sherlock and John misuse a time machine and are sent back to 1888 where they find an odd, alternate version of themselves.   Meanwhile, Mycroft is desperately trying to find them.  Contains elements from Connie Willis's 'To say Nothing of the Dog'.


The day had started out uneventful enough.

Six o'clock brought Lestrade with an interesting problem, so they left the house earlier than usual, no one bothering to arrange breakfast. John grabbed a box of biscuits as he followed out the door.

Sherlock hardly spoke to him in the cab, preferring instead to text agitatedly while punctuating the silence with small noises of irradiation. When asked about the case the only reply he gave was "Stabbed."

Seven o'clock was spent milling outside the crime scene, waiting for the DI. Donovan hadn't been as nasty since the pool incident, but she was by no means polite when John tried to get access to the investigation. "You _and_ the Freak have to stay out of the way until the inspector comes."

Lestrade arrived just before eight, looking flushed and apologetic. He briefed them hurriedly as they walked into the crime scene.

"Found three hours ago. She's been identified as Miranda Hews, no family, lives in the West end. "Biscuits?"

John still hadn't opened the box. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

They tore into the package while Sherlock stalked over to the body, not bothering to put on gloves.

"He must have some sort of system," Lestrade said thoughtfully, watching him prod a kneecap. "Like a checklist of sorts."

"Dunno." He ate another biscuit.

At eight-thirty his pocket rang.

"Mycroft." Sherlock said without looking up.

"What? How would-"

"He's been asking me the most inane questions all morning."

John frowned and opened his mobile.

_I would like to see Sherlock at my office at 2.  
Do you have any clients named Mortsan?_

_-MH_

"He wants you to come to his office at two."

"I've already told him I'm busy."

"Doing what?"

Sherlock glanced up in annoyance. "I have an important appointment."

"You have a haircut."

"I can't reschedule it."

"Then let's go see him now instead of waiting till two."

Sherlock made a huffing sound and bent over the body again.

"Do you have any clients named Mortsan?"

This, apparently, was too much. "I have had enough of Mycroft's prodding today; he doesn't need to work through you." He stood up and adjusted his scarf. "Lestrade!"

The DI brushed a few crumbs off his sleeve. "I suppose you've worked it out then?"

"Stabbed near Whitechapel, the body was in a car for three hours; try looking for a rental with a blue interior. Met with a man last night, there was a fight, bruises on the wrists and arm."

"Anything else?"

"No. I've got to go, my brother is being insufferable."

Lestrade turned to John with a look of abject horror. "There's another one?"

"No-" John opened his mouth to explain Mycroft and found that he couldn't. "Well, Mycroft's- odd, sort of-"

Sherlock had already gotten a cab and was climbing into it.

"Listen, I've got to go," He bolted after the cab and left Lestrade standing alone with the box of biscuits and a curious expression.

/

Mycroft's office was empty when they got there. John settled into one of the over-sized chairs next to the desk, feeling smaller than usual. Sherlock had decided to look through the cabinets.

John wondered vaguely if he should ask him to stop but decided it would be rather pointless. _Besides, _he thought, _Mycroft would never leave anything important in an unlocked file cabinet._

His stomach growled. "Maybe we should get some lunch and come back?" He prompted, wishing he hadn't left the box of biscuits behind.

Sherlock ignored him and flipped through a folder before shoving it back in and ramming the drawer shut.

"Nothing interesting then?"

"Hardly." He gave up on the cabinet and walked around the small room, eyes narrowed. One of the wood panels on the wall was lighter than the others. He mumbled something and bent close to it, running a finger along the edge.

"Sorry?"

"He's always liked things like this."

"Like what?"

"Tacky things. Give me a hand?"

John groaned slightly as he pushed himself out of the chair and stood next to him. "What are you trying to do?"

"Open this. Put some pressure here." He tapped the bottom edge of the panel and then pressed the top corners.

John pushed the bottom of the square. There was a clicking sound and the panel swung open.

Sherlock smirked. "Tacky."

/

The panel opened into a small, poorly lit room. The only light came from a single torchiere near the door.

There was a circle of heavy velvet drapes in the middle, connected to a computer monitor by a tangle of thick wires and cables.

Sherlock stepped through the opening. "Coming?"

_Of course._ John hoisted himself over the short wall and nearly tripped on one of the cables that snaked around the ring and over to the computer.

There was a pile of clothes next to the ring of curtains. Sherlock picked up a shirt and gave it a glance before throwing it back and walking to the computer.

"Well?" John asked, tugging a waistcoat out of the pile. The only reply he got was a rapid tapping of keys.

The coat was a violet color, with a long row of silver buttons and two large pockets. He stuck his hand in the left one and was rewarded with a crinkling of paper. He dug it out.

It looked extremely used, the corners half-ripped off and creases where it had been folded multiple times. The script was messy and small so he walked over to the lamp, squinting.

"Costumes." Sherlock said suddenly.

"Sorry?"

"Those are clothes for an actor. Good ones. The choice of material is durable, it's been worn recently by more than one person but hasn't been washed. The sleeve has orange powder on the inside cuff, probably makeup."

_Lines for the performer then_, John thought, trying to decipher the messy blots on the paper and failing. _One who writes like an orangutan._

He gave up and walked towards the red curtains, jamming the paper into his pocket.

The drapes were arranged in a closed circle with five wires connecting them to the ceiling. From there the strings fed into a number of small electric pulleys.

He stepped into the circle. There was a chalk X in the middle.

_Entertainment? Maybe Mycroft has an odd penchant for theatre..._ A prickle of unease suddenly wormed its way through his curiosity. "We should go."

Sherlock snorted softly, the consol illuminating his face as he typed. "My brother has yet to design a suitable security program."

"I don't think he'd be thrilled at finding us going through his personal projects."

"Not personal. I thought you enjoyed this."

"This isn't police work, it's trespassing! Besides, how could you know it's not per-"

"Eleven people, at the most. There's twelve accounts on here, and besides, Mycroft would never wear something as garish as that-" he broke off for a second, fingers flying. "Hah!"

The drapes shuttered as the wires suddenly became taught. He grinned. "Definitely not a personal project."

"What is it then?"

"Not sure. A transportation system, perhaps. I've never seen a computer like this. It must have cost him billions." Sherlock was suddenly statue-like, eyes fixed on the screen. He pressed another key.

There was the sound of an air-raid siren and the curtains began to rise, the wires humming."_Coordinates,_" he breathed, looking across at John, "They've already used it."

"Wonderful. I'm leaving." He walked to the edge of the circle.

"Wait! Stand in the middle!" John turned. Sherlock was wearing a frightening expression that he recognized from St. Barts.

"Don't you dare, I am not your guinea pig,"

He began to pull up the bottom of the cloth only to find that is was duct-taped to the floor.

"Sherlock!" he yelled furiously over the siren, "_Sherlock!_" The curtains started to rise faster, obscuring the consol. "Sherlock!" He yelled again, running towards the opposite side of the net and yanking the drapes only to find they were fastened there too.

"If you don't stop that _immediately _I am going to look for another flat!" He beat the sides of the curtain. "_Sherlock!_"

The air-raid siren stopped abruptly and the wires started to lower. "If you ever do anything that again," John said lividly, "I will write-"

He stopped and stared stupidly at the pine tree in the place where the consol had been.


End file.
